Never smile at a crocodile

It can’t be denied.  I’ve been a bit slack of late on the old blog writing.  To be honest, there just isn’t that much going on around here.  What do I write? – Yeah I ate another mango, took another swim.  Who wants to hear that crap?  Certainly not the majority of my audience who are for the most part sitting around in jumpers experiencing a daily high of ten degrees.  Now, they definitely don't want to hear that I spent another day in my bikinis.  It’s nauseating and offensive.

Therefore, I’ve decided to dive into the archives and throw a few stories of old out there.  The other good news is that these stories are already written, have accompanying photos, and have been sitting in the files of my old computer for the last four years.  A computer that my trusty buddy dug around in boxes of my crap looking for that I’d left in her cupboard since 2006.  That means less work for me, and more bullshit for all you.  A good result?  Well I’m sure you’ll let me know in time.

Our first tale is a little number I call “Teasing Crocodiles”.  It was written in May 2008 when I spent a month in Costa Rica.  Actually there’s a lot I wrote about that natural Disneyland of a country – so just let me know if you tire of it.  Otherwise it’ll just keep on coming…….

Teasing Crocodiles

I can’t help but think that crocodiles are the kinds of animals that shouldn't ever be teased.  Let’s face it; it’s not like tugging gently on a ball of string, as your fluffy little ginger kitten paws it cutely with that sweet, if not slightly half-crazed look in its eye.  After all, it's a universally accepted fact that crocodiles can eat people, and sometimes do.  Kitties only do the same if they’re trapped starving in a house with their already dead owner and there’s nothing else to snack on except a dead rotting face.  Kittens never do the killing themselves.  Or so we're led to believe.

murderous little ranger

That’s the difference between kittens and crocodiles, well among many such as size, colour, number of teeth, lack of fluff,  and then there's the reptile factor. It’s a well known fact that at least a couple of times a year a German backpacker is devoured like a hot piece of schnitzel.  Most Aussies’s then comment on the victim’s stupidity for deciding that a morning dip in a Kakadu lake was just the thing to wake up with (how about the flesh being torn from your arse to do the job Helga?  - you should have just gone a warm cup of international roast with powdered milk…..).  We do actually feel sorry for Han’s and his error in deciding to take a closer look at six metre beauty from his cheap flimsy kayak, but mostly we thank our lucky stars it wasn’t us being made into a continental breakfast and go onto the next story about the world’s biggest squash being grown in Shepparton.

hello handbags

However, along with the terror comes the fascination.  One day, while driving from the small town of Atenas located in the mountains of Costa Rica west of San Jose, I noticed we were approaching a tourist hot spot.  According to a well-known travel guide, it was the bridge at Tarcoles - whatever that shit means.  I had forgotten about it until I saw the people looking over the sides.  “It’s the crocodile bridge – stop stop!!!” I shouted.  We stopped. I got out into the heat and expectantly peered over the rail of the bridge. I definitely wasn’t prepared for the several 4 metre long salt-water crocodiles basking in the shallows.  Nor was I expecting to see one, two, three, four more submerged beasties.  Their armoured backs were caked with dried mud as they floated there like giant murderous logs. Looking out over the other side of the bridge, we saw four more crocs soaking up the rays on the shore, and a few smaller ones lurking in the mud.  In total we counted seventeen – and they were just the ones we could see.

It’s hard not to let the imagination run wild, and imagine leaning just a little bit too far over the edge and then toppling down into a mass of snapping jaws, with lots of blood and screaming. Or it’s actually less scary and more thrilling if you imagine it happening to the American tourist next to you.  She was wearing Crocs.  How appropriate.  And basically, with that kind of fashion choice she deserves to have her limbs torn off her body and her torso stashed under a log for seconds.  I too, always plan my outfit according to what giant predator I intend to be maimed by.  Imagining immediate karma from my grisly and strangely satisfying vision (I really hate Crocs), I kept a firm grip on the rails with one hand, and on my purse with the other. A loss of all life’s essentials could almost be just as bad as the actual limb tearing.

die you purple croc wearing freak. Die!

Deep in thoughts of death, maiming, splurting blood and screaming – basically just like any other day - I then noticed a couple of guys approaching the bridge and laughing wickedly.  They were tying a chicken to a string.  This was one of the supermarket bought chicken you’d turn into a sumptuous meal, not a little squawking feathered chicken. We followed the three Costa Rican lads (or ticos) back to the middle of the bridge.  There was quite a crowd out there now – after seeing the chicken on a string they had decided to stay for the show.  We all watched intently as one of the ticos lowered the chicken ever so slowly down, down and closer to the three or four crocs below.  It was spotted on the descent by couple of the larger ones who slid towards centre position and eyed it off.  However, it was the biggest croc in the river that positioned himself directly underneath. One of the smaller ones, however, wasn’t letting it go so easily and mounted the chief’s back, snapping wildly at the chicken. He managed to grab part of it in his jaws, but the ticos pulled most of the chicken back up quickly, as four crocs thrashed around in the water below.

The watching crowd gasped with expectation.  After all it’s not everyday that you have fun with a roasting chicken.  Then, when all was calm in the river, the chicken was let back down.  However, there was no mucking around this time. The biggest croc didn’t let the chicken out of his sight.  He had his eye on the prize and with a huge propelled jump and a snap the chicken game was over.  As he swam off fast and hard with the chicken and string in his mouth, suddenly there was a crack and the string flicked back up with extreme force hitting one of the ticos in the face.

Everyone applauded (apart from the dude with the welt on his cheek), and suddenly the spell was over as people wandered back to their cars.  I felt a rush of exhilaration mixed with guilt for enjoying the show so much.  There’s something uncomfortable about witnessing the teasing of crocodiles.  Deriving pleasure from watching ancient reptiles fight over a 2-dollar chicken is an uncomfortable realisation about what you yourself consider entertainment.  You become an unwilling witness to their loss of dignity.  Not that they’d give a shit though.  Especially Big Brucie who actually scored the chicken.  You know that with a snap and crunch any one of them would make an entrée out of you without hesitation, but seeing them vulnerable brings up unexpected reactions.  I had heard a couple of Americans mumble disgustedly, “that was sick” yet they watched the whole event with fascination and took a shitload of pictures to later show their friends back home. After that little show, the town of our destination, Jaco - supposedly rife with drugs and prostitution, seemed uneventful and tame.

That’s entertainment in a developing country for you.